


The Fine Art of Diplomacy

by DrJekyl



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJekyl/pseuds/DrJekyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voyager's Captain and Chief Medical Officer share an away mission to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first full Voyager story I've written in ages. Thanks to Ewige Studentin for the beta!

The Doctor deftly threaded his way through the early evening crowd, thinning now as he approached his destination. They'd deliberately chosen lodgings on the edge of the city centre as their base of operations; the greater security and comfort afforded by an establishment used to catering to aliens was well worth the twenty minute walk - or so he was Told, and when one was Told, one didn't argue. Besides, the path took you along the river most of the way, which was quite picturesque if you were into that sort of thing, and  
the Doctor most assuredly was. He only wished he'd brought his camera.

All up, it had been an excellent day. He always relished the rare opportunity to share ideas with other medical professionals, and thus far the conference was proving to be an excellent forum for such exchange. He had dazzled them with his own brilliance and innovations, introducing at least twenty new techniques in the space of five hours. In exchange, he'd been shown some of the more novel aspects of Watiri medicine, not the least of which was a method of treating severe spinal injuries that he'd never encountered before (and couldn't wait to try out and refine on Voyager). Once he'd reported in and dropped off his conference gear, he was going to return to the city for a 'dinner' with several specialists in that particular field which promised to prove enlightening indeed. That this group included the delightful young surgeon Arata, who appeared to have taken a particular (and perhaps even non-professional)interest in him, was an added bonus.

Life in essence, was good.

Humming a snatch of _Candide_ that had started looping in his active memory for no apparent reason, he let himself into the small suite of rooms without knocking.

"Ah, Captain. Just checking in as ordered," he beamed, smile fading as he took in the figure on the couch. His commanding officer appeared to be asleep, more or less upright on the sofa, with her cheek in resting in her hand. He hurried over and gently shook her shoulder, noting flushed cheeks and uneven breathing with concern. "Captain?"

She opened slightly bloodshot eyes, focused on him with apparent difficulty and favoured him with a toothy grin.

"Doctor! Made it back in one piece!"

He didn't need his tricorder, or even a sense of smell, to make a diagnosis.

"You're drunk!" he said, equal parts incredulity and accusation. While, at one stage or another, he'd provided hangover cures for pretty much every other member of the crew, he'd never seen Kathryn Janeway get anything more than slightly tipsy, and then only with synthehol.

"The Watiri," she began with exaggerated dignity, an effect that was ruined when she tried to put her elbow back down on the armrest and missed, "have a _very_ interesting custom."

He'd bet they did. As he'd spent most of the day discovering, they were a _very_ interesting people.

"Does it involve the consumption of large amounts of alcohol, pray tell?"

"It does! How did you know?" she seemed genuinely puzzled.

"I have my ways," he sighed. "Speaking of which, I'm going to get my medkit. Don't move." He seriously doubted that she was capable of standing upright, let alone moving under her own power, but he'd learned long ago never to underestimate his Captain.

Of course, he'd learned long ago that she never took his advice either.

He returned seconds later, medkit in hand, to find she had, in fact, moved, but only to slump over so that her head was now on the armrest. She looked up at him coyly as his first scan confirmed his earlier diagnosis.

"Your blood alcohol level is .20!"

"Well, I did have to match the Watiri am... abmassador... _ambassador_ drink for drink. Wasn't what I'd call potent stuff, but I'll admit it crept up on me a bit."

He'd met their Watiri liaison. He massed about three times the diminutive Janeway. Well, that explained the _level_ of intoxication, at least. As to the cause...

"I see. And this was... customary..?"

"Our... hosts believe that peoples' true natures are revealed when you're intosicated. Will only negotiate when both parties are drunk as lords." Her impish grin returned. "Besides, he dared me. Never challenge a redhead, Doctor." She waved an unsteady finger under his nose. "Never."

"I'll bear that in mind," he said dryly, putting the tricorder away. "I'm afraid I didn't bring anything suitable for your present... condition. You'll just have to let your body process the ethanol and eliminate the toxins naturally. I'd suggest you do so from the comfort of your bed."

"You're the doctor!"

A ready acquiescence; if he'd needed further confirmation that she was drunk, that was it.

"I am at that," he sighed again, making a mental note to cancel his dinner plans. There was no way he could leave her own her own in this state; a BAC of .20 carried with it a real dangers. "Here, I'll help you up."

He reached out to help her off of the sofa, but midway through the operation realised anew, as she struggled to return to an upright position, that her sense of balance was dangerously impaired: forget making it under her own power, he doubted she'd make it even with his arm to lean on. He didn't want to have to explain to Commander Chakotay how their Captain had cracked her skull open on the Watiri equivalent of a coffee table.

Instead, he scooped her up into his arms in a single, efficient motion, ignoring her most un-captainly squeak of protest. She was worryingly light -she was losing weight, again- and he made another mental note to make good use of her impending incapacitation by taking a set of deep scans. Given her predilection for avoiding matters pertaining to her own health, heaven only knew when he'd get another opportunity. Almost seven years of physicals, and she'd fought every one of them. He'd actually had to threaten to conduct her last one there and then on the bridge before she'd given in.

"Relax, Captain," he said, shifting his grip slightly to accommodate her squirming. "I'll put you down in a minute."

"Relax and enjoy the ride? I've heard that before," she slurred, but relaxed anyway. He decided it was a comment that had implications best ignored, if not outright scrubbed from his memory buffer. Some questions did not bear asking - at least not if one valued one's sanity and continued, trouble-free existence.

"You're very strong," she said after a second to appreciate her new vantage point.

"I'm a hologram, Captain," he replied as he started to navigate towards her bedroom. "I'm as strong as my containment field, and, by extension, projection system and power supply, allow me to be. My upper limit on the mobile emitter seems to be somewhere in the region of two tonnes at standard gravity. On Voyager, I've never tested it, but I suspect it's considerably more."

"I did not know that."

"Few do."

Once you overcame the very real issue of creating a portable projection system – and he'd really lucked out there - there were major advantages to being comprised of light and energy rather than organic matter. In addition to incredible strength, he was also very fast when he needed to be, had superior tactile, visual and aural acuity, could change his appearance at whim, control his apparent mass, become effectively intangible... It had taken him a long time to realise the benefits of being a hologram. And, of everyone on Voyager, he was fairly certain only Tuvok had given his capabilities real thought. The Vulcan had approached him not long after the incident with Iden, with the idea of modifying a changeling detection security drill from the Dominion War to deal with a rogue hologram. They'd discussed his abilities at length, but it had never gotten any further – largely, he had to admit, because he was upset that Tuvok viewed him as a potential security threat.

He stopped at her bed and shifted his grip once more, first to set down the medkit and then to turn down the bedding. He barely paused when she slipped her arms around his neck for greater stability, head resting against his shoulder, even though it brought back a sudden rush of memories he thought he'd long since archived. Sometimes Mareeza would get so caught up in her latest composition that she'd fall asleep at her desk. He'd carried her up to bed more than once as a result. And there had been that one time, after the rapturous debut of her first Sky Ship sonata, when she'd had a bit too much in the way of 'celebratory spirit' - he'd never laughed so much in his life.

Something of his train of thought, however, and the accompanying, bitter-sweet surge of emotion must have shown on his face. His Captain looked up at him with concern.

"What's wrong?"

He forced a smile and deposited her gently on the bed, sitting upright - more or less - and drew the covers up over her legs. "Nothing. I'm going to get you some water. It'll help with your hangover tomorrow."

"Don't lie to me, Doctor," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I may not be entirely sober, but I'm shtill - still - the Captain."

"It's nothing you should be concerned about," he elaborated further, making for the wall replicator.

"I'm the Captain," she reiterated firmly. "It's my job to be concerned about my crew whether they want it or not. Tell me. 's an order."

"Very well," he sighed, turning back with a full glass and jug of water. "I was remembering my time on Kelemane."

"Kelemane?" She frowned in attempted recollection.

"Drink up." He passed her the glass of water and, after a second's deliberation, sat on the side of the bed facing her. "The planet we encountered that was out of temporal sync with the rest of the galaxy..?"

She took a long sip under his watchful eye. "The one you spent three years on?"

"The very same. I was remembering..." he trailed off as the floodgates of his memory opened in earnest. "I was thinking about some of the people I left behind."

"Anyone in particular?"

He found himself hesitating once more. For all the prodding of various curious parties - particularly Commander Chakotay, who was still spending nights sorting through probe data and writing papers - he'd been reluctant to share too much of his life on Kelemane. He sometimes felt like Rip van Winkle: he'd fallen asleep for but a moment and woken up in a future in where everyone he cared about was long dead. What good did dwelling on his old life do? He'd found it just made him upset.

"I'll take that as a yes," his Captain said, taking another long pull from the glass. He understood why Lewis had tied his facial expressions to his emotional state - it facilitated patient interaction and trust - but at times like this it seemed a definite liability.

"Mareeza," he confirmed with a heavy sigh.

"Your... roommate?"

The questions in her eyes echoed the questions she'd refrained from asking that day on the transporter pad.

"The closest term I could find at the time to describe our relationship; there's no direct translation into any major Federation language. We lived together, worked together, we had- Well, suffice it to say, it was complicated," he finished, somewhat lamely. He didn't think he'd ever be ready to talk about Jason, and answer the inevitable questions such a confession would bring.

She cocked her head to one side.

"You miss her." It was a statement, not a question, and softly spoken.

"I do. It's very..." he trailed off, finding himself unable to meet her eyes any longer. He surveyed the room instead. It was sterile, even when one took into account the temporary nature of their accommodation. A few spare uniforms, a bag of coffee, out in the kitchenette, and a standard away team communications and self-defence kit were all she'd brought with her, and he couldn't spot any souvenirs from her visit thus far, any items that had the stamp of her personality on them.

The word popped, unbidden, into his vocal subroutines. "Lonely."

He finished his survey of the room, and, meeting the gaze of his Captain once more, suddenly realised - not without a certain amount of restrained, inner horror - exactly whom he was addressing.

He sighed.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this now."

Her free hand covered his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her expression was understanding, if slightly unfocused.

"I asked. Sometimes it's good to get these things off your chest."

"There is that."

"And there's a good chance that I won't remember this in the morning. I haven't been this drunk since I was a first-year cadet."

"There's that too, I suppose." He found himself meeting her toothy smile with a wry one of his own.

He topped up her glass and stood, placing the jug on the nightstand.

"At any rate, I've got to make a call. Drink the rest of that, and try to get some sleep. I'll check up on you during the night."

She raised her glass to him in salute.

"Bottoms up!"

"Indeed. Goodnight, Captain."

* * *

Kathryn Janeway winced at the familiar feeling of a hypospray pressed against her neck, repressing a sigh of relief as the drug cocktail worked its way through her system. The pounding in her head faded to something more manageable, and her stomach no longer felt as if it wanted to eject itself forcibly from her body. If only something could be done about the gritty, sour taste in her mouth, she'd be three for three.

"Here. Drink this."

She opened her eyes again, blinking in the unaccountably harsh glare of the room's lights, to find her Chief Medical Officer presenting her with a tall glass of water. He appeared more than slightly exasperated.

"As I mentioned last night, I'm afraid I left my patented hangover cure on Voyager. We'll have to treat this the old fashioned way."

"In that case," she began, pulling herself, wincing, into a sitting position, "I'll have a coffee. Black."

"Not just yet, I think. Water first."

"Doctor, I'm going to say this just once. Coffee. Black."

Evidently recent events had robbed her usually potent command glare of some of its power; rather than cowering or making a move towards the replicator, he straightened in his chair, squaring his shoulders.

"You may have your usual morning toxin infusion," he said firmly, "after you've had something to combat your dehydration. Doctor's orders."

She opened her mouth to argue further but decided against it; he was wearing that odd, mild expression he sometimes got when he'd made a medical judgment and was not willing to be questioned, and her head still ached enough that she didn't want to argue about it.

She took the glass with poor humour, and downed half of it in one pull.

"Better," he said, relaxing. That was strange, when you thought about it, really: he didn't actually have anything to relax, so he had to be doing it purely for her benefit. Someone - Lewis Zimmerman, presumably - had gone to great lengths to make the EMH move and change posture and gesture like a human, even when he wasn't practicing medicine. She'd even caught him with his feet up on his desk before.

A short while, a long shower and a fresh uniform later, and she was starting to feel more like herself. Apparently satisfied with her recovery, the Doctor was gone by the time she emerged, presumably off to his own conference. He had, however, left her a surprisingly unhealthy looking breakfast - complete with coffee, thank heavens - and a note.

She took a long sip from the steaming mug, sighing in pleasure as her favourite brew, done just the way she liked it, drove the remaining cobwebs away. With it, though, came a flood of memories from the previous day and night, threatening to bring back her headache in force. Had she really told the Watiri ambassador that he smelled like a wet dog? She hoped not. At least she didn't remember promising anything that she hadn't already planned to give.

Ignoring the breakfast for the meantime, she picked up the PADD the Doctor had left behind, deciding to get the inevitable chastisement out of the way sooner rather than later.

> _  
> Captain,_
> 
> _On the off chance that you do not wish a repeat of the events of yesterday, my research indicates that Watiri custom permits you to nominate the intoxicant to be consumed at the closure of negotiations. I should probably be deregistered for suggesting this, but I happen to know of a drug that you've already built up an exceptional tolerance to. It's also not particularly prevalent in Watiri society.  
> _

She found her eyes momentarily drawn back to her steaming mug. Of course. She could drink it all day without problem, but the Watiri ambassador would probably be bouncing off the ceiling by the end of his third or fourth cup.

> _  
> On a somewhat related note, I believe that, with a bit of training, you'd make a fine contralto. However, I didn't realise that "The Admiralty Song" had quite so many verses._
> 
> _I note that you've lost approximately two kilograms since your last physical. We'll be discussing your diet at length on return to Voyager.  
> _

As usual, it was unsigned.

She felt her cheeks heat. The Admiralty Song was a mnemonic she'd learned as a cadet to help remember which members of the sprawling Starfleet admiralty held what obscure areas of responsibility. It started off seriously but got more and more obscene the further you got into it. And she could remember, now, singing at least ten verses of it to the EMH, who'd sat on a chair at her bedside, watching her from over the top of the PADD he was reading and commenting periodically on the anatomical impossibility of the scenarios. For all his front of mild horror, she could swear that he'd been trying not to smile.

He'd probably sat there the entire night. She could remember waking up at least twice to be heartily sick and he'd been there to render what aid he could. The first time she'd evidentially still had enough alcohol in her system to be chatty during and afterwards. Unusually, he'd seemed more content to listen than talk himself, but she'd managed to pry a few more details out of him about his life on Kelemane. She'd always meant to ask more about it - there were large gaps in his official report, and periodically he'd say something or use a turn of phrase that left you wondering – but he'd always seemed reluctant enough to answer that she didn't feel comfortable pressing the point.

It must have been hard to come back to Voyager after spending three years living as a civilian, much of it, from what she'd been able to determine, in a committed relationship. He was lonely. He'd admitted as much. Like Captain, the position of CMO was often an isolating one: people only tended to come to you when they had problems, and were relieved to see your backside when said problems were dealt with. Add that to eclectic, often esoteric interests and the sometimes cringe-inducing enthusiasm with which he pursued them, and it was not surprising that he had few - if any - friends outside of the senior staff.

Her staff room, though, was changing subtly. The team still worked harmoniously together, but there were undercurrents of tension that hadn't been present since that first, difficult year of working together, when no-one was sure where everyone else stood. The dreaded seven-year itch. Tom and B'Elanna, with the impending arrival of their baby, were focusing more and more on each other while Harry seemed to be less content with his roles as third wheel to the Paris-Torres family and Operations Officer. Tuvok was withdrawing further into himself, and she wasn't sure if it was due to the loss of Neelix, with whom he shared an odd bond of sorts, or another, unspecified cause. Either way, he wouldn't be drawn, even by her.

The Doctor, at least, seemed to have gotten over actively wanting to leave the ship, but she didn't need their conversation last night to know that he wasn't entirely happy about his situation. Seven seemed to equate growing up with casting aside those who'd been there at the outset, and, while less volatile and certainly more 'socialised', was increasingly distant to everyone but Chakotay. And as for Chakotay, well, Kathryn been seeing less and less of her first officer as he worked late on unspecified projects. They hadn't shared a meal or a holodeck program together in weeks. She missed the time they spent together, his easy company, his-

She blinked and pushed the thought away. She'd find a way to deal with her impending crew problems - and make an effort to reconnect with Chakotay - when she got back to Voyager. In the mean time, she'd better find out just exactly how much wiggle room she'd left for herself at the negotiating table.

* * *

Kathryn found herself moving beyond impatience and irritation at her travelling companion's absence and into outright worry. She knew that he had a regrettable tendency to get caught up whenever on shore leave and 'lose track of time' - as if he didn't have an inbuilt, and as he'd once told her, highly accurate internal clock! - and had accounted for this by giving him a departure time that was a well over standard hour before they were actually scheduled to leave. But here she was, less than half an hour before they needed to be at the spaceport, and no EMH. In fact, she hadn't seen him since their abbreviated conversation yesterday morning, nor had she been able to raise him on the comm. That was the real concern.

She set her tricorder to scan for his mobile emitter, as was relieved when her readings suggested it was only a short walk away. She shouldered her carry-all and set off at as brisk a pace as the surprisingly heavy early-morning crowd would allow. The sights, smells and sounds of a teeming alien world assaulted her senses; she wished she'd had the time to explore properly. The few hours she'd managed to squeeze in after the conclusion of negotiations yesterday, waiting for her caffeine high to wear off enough for her to sleep, had really only whet her appetite. It was, to her ongoing regret, an all too common situation for her - she never seemed to get time to smell the roses these days.

The tricorder readings led her first along the river, filled with colourful, angular boats, and then away from it, through a shopping district and into a residential area. It was there that, to her relief, she spotted the familiar form of her Chief Medical Officer, standing, back to her, in a doorway. She closed and holstered her tricorder and hastened over. Drawing closer, however, she realised he wasn't alone, but locked in a passionate embrace with a rather dishevelled looking young Watiri woman.

She could feel her eyebrows rise towards her hairline. She'd heard the rumours, of course. They'd started sometime in the second year of their journey, when the crew, constantly prodded and cajoled by Kes, had started to see him as more of a person and less of a program. And she knew that he'd made modifications to his program in that respect around that time. She'd even joked about it with Chakotay once or twice. But if there had every actually been any truth to the claims that their holographic doctor was a closet casanova, he'd been remarkably discreet – particularly for him - until now.

When it became evident that, not only had the couple not seen her, but were unlikely to break things up anytime soon, she stepped forward, clearing her throat.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Captain!" he squeaked, turning around with almost inhuman speed. His expression was, frankly, priceless. She wished she had a camera – it deserved to be preserved for all posterity.

"Ma'am." She inclined her head towards the startled looking woman, apparently clad only in a bedsheet, before returning her gaze to her CMO. "Doctor, we're late."

It wasn't often that you saw him lost for words. His mouth worked silently for several seconds.

"I was just, ah, explaining to Dr Arata that very fact," he said weakly.

"Well, it looks like you've finished 'explaining'," she replied, enjoying the exchange far more than she should. "We need to get moving."

"Captain, I-"

"Now, Doctor."

"Yes, Captain," he sighed, and turned to his companion. "As I said earlier, I have to go."

"I understand," she said, grabbing his hand. The sheet slipped dangerously, and Kathryn found it safest to focus on a point just above her head rather than look directly at her. "I had fun. If you're ever passing through Watiri space again, look me up."

"I'll be certain to." The Doctor kissed the offered hand and dropped it, turning back to face Kathryn. He managed to look simultaneously sheepish and defiant. "Let's go."

She led, pushing her way through the crowd, with him a few steps behind.

"You didn't answer your comm," she called over her shoulder.

"I was... preoccupied," he replied drawing level. His tone and hesitation before speaking left zero doubt as to what, exactly, he'd been preoccupied with.

"'Preoccupied' or not, Doctor," she said, stopping to affix him with a stern look, "the next time you fail to answer your comm on an away mission will be the last time you ever go on one. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, Captain"

They walked the rest of the way towards the spaceport in silence. He looked duly chastened and obviously uncomfortable, and she couldn't resist the urge to needle him, just a little.

"So, how was the conference?"

"Excellent!" he replied, relief at being on a safer topic evident. "It was a real opportunity to exchange ideas and techniques, not just with Watiri physicians, but with physicians from several neighbouring systems. They were all very interested in Federation medicine – our practices are quite different from those developed in this sector. People were queuing up to speak with me by the end! I think I've earned Voyager a lot of goodwill."

"And Dr Arata...?"

"She's a quite talented spinal surgeon," he supplied, with slightly less enthusiasm and rather more suspicion. "The Watiri have several novel techniques for treating spinal injuries that, when dealing with the most severe cases, can cut the recovery time by up to sixty percent. She taught me quite a lot."

She'd bet.

"She seemed quite taken with you."

He glanced down at her, seemingly weighing his reply. She tried to keep her expression neutral. When he finally spoke, his voice held more than a touch of his usual smugness.

"I'm physician, Captain, and a hologram. There are certain... benefits."

Remembering Michael Sullivan, she found that she had to agree. There was something to be said for a man who was *completely* customisable. Though Michael hadn't had the Doctor's knowledge of anatomy...

"I can imagine," she said dryly, abruptly wishing she couldn't.

"Actually, I take a certain amount of pride-"

"Enough, Doctor," she held up a hand to forestall him. "I don't think I want to know."

"You did ask."

"And you've answered. Enough."

It wasn't until they reached their shuttlecraft and had stowed everything away that another word was spoken.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"All things considered..." he began hesitantly, watching her from out of the corner of his eye, "I'll never mention this mission again if you don't."

She paused in the middle of her pre-flight check, mentally reviewing the events of the past few days. _The Admiralty Song_ and half an hour spent bending over the sink loomed large in her consciousness. And, frankly, she suspected that the less she thought about certain extra-curricular activities undertaken by her CMO, the happier she'd be.

"Deal."


End file.
